Andrew Ross Watson Entry #2: Why I Hate Scones

Let me begin by saying that my wife requested that I post the following story from my childhood. I originally recorded this story in an email to some of my family members back in November '07 as I was recounting some of my life experiences leading up to my 30th birthday. Since that time, this has been forwarded to other friends and family, so I sincerely apologize to those of you who have already seen the following excerpt from the Book of Andy. That said, I have provided additional detail in the version below. Also, as a heads up, the said email contained several stories from my childhood, so I'll be posting the others separately in future blog entries. Let it be known that I consider the concept of recycling humorous content to be deplorable--however, let it also be known that I follow the wishes of my wife (and no, she doesn't "wear the pants" in our family--our family has one large pair of metaphorical pants and we both wear them comfortably. One might say that the Watson family "pants" were tailored from the highest quality fibers of stretchy polyester). So there you have it. Let me take you back to 1995 ...

One of the key principles of why we're here on Earth is to learn, grow and progress. In order to learn, we must pass through several challenges and trying times. One of these learning experiences--later filed in my emotional DNA under the category of "Learning how to Be Socially Secure in the Face of Extreme Embarrassment"--occurred while I was in high school on a date with a girl I had been pursuing for several months.

It had taken me quite a while to work up the courage to ask this girl out. I had painstakingly planned out every detail of the date to ensure I was in control of every aspect of the evening. Each moment of every situation had to be carefully orchestrated so as not to be surprised by any potential roadblocks that would hinder my ultimate goal of holding her hand for a minimum of five seconds. Granted, the goal was high, but I was a 17-year old man on a serious mission and I felt up to the task. I had asked a few of my friends to obtain dates as well (each friend with similar objectives to achieve) and thus establishing an environment of mutual support for one another.

The date began very enjoyable; everything was moving along as planned. We ate dinner at a nice, less-than-ten-bucks-per-plate restaurant, followed by some romantic ice-skating in downtown SLC. Rehearsing the date in my mind over the past few days had paid off; I had remembered to wear extra deodorant and a "soaker" T-shirt just in case of extra perspiration. I opened the car door for her, pulled out her chair as we sat down at the restaurant, and I had even offered to tie her ice skates for her as we prepared to spend an hour gliding across the silver rink-o-destiny. I noticed she must have done some pre-date preparation as well because she had obviously applied the chart-topping lotion of the '90s--Cucumber Melon, from Bath & Body Works. I quickly analyzed the situation with my acute sense of logic:

Question: Why would this girl apply the best-smelling lotion of all time on her hands?
Answer: To not only ensure she continuously exuded the scent of celestial fabric softener, but more importantly, to ensure her hands maintained a state of moistness and suppleness never before attained by mortals.
Conclusion: She probably shared the same handholding objective as me--nay, her objective likely surpassed my own, perhaps shooting for a handholding experience of up to 10 seconds or more. This was sure to be an evening to rival the great love stories of all time.

Ice-skating went great--no major hiccups except for an uncomfortable span of 10 minutes when one of my friends started showing people that he could skate backwards. Although this was impressive, skating backwards was the wrong move for him to make if he was trying to show his date how studly he was. Taking a girl ice-skating is romantic and fun; but being good at ice-skating makes both guys and gals squeamish. Needless to say, his handholding objective took a downturn there. But we're not focused on his story here--back to my situation...

One of the reasons I planned an ice-skating activity was to provide an opportunity to take my date BY THE HAND should she need any assistance around the rink. What I didn't realize was that ice-skating takes place in a cold environment, so we were all wearing gloves. So while I did share a few priceless handholding seconds at various times during our ice-skating activity, I didn't feel like I had accomplished my goal since I didn't actually touch her real hand; our handholding Utopia was dimmed by the harsh barrier of leather-laden gloves.

Looking back, I realize I should have been grateful for what I had achieved on the ice. We should have wrapped things up after the ice-skating as I had planned. Unfortunately, I became crazed with the thought of five (or more) real seconds of sincere handholding and in my over-zealousness suggested that we stop for late night hot cocoa and scones at the Sconecutter restaurant before dropping our dates back home (to give me one last chance to meet my goal).

To provide context, I was really on my game that night; definitely dubbed “the funny guy” for the evening. All of my jokes and witty anecdotes were landing perfectly, my timing, impeccable. My confidence was bubbling over and I could tell my date was basking in my glow. And that’s when the tide turned—I didn’t pay attention to the seemingly obvious environmental ingredients of a disastrous recipe about to occur:

Factor 1: I had gone ice-skating right after dinner …
Factor 2: I was throwing out jokes left and right--laughing several times--and naturally, contracting my stomach muscles again and again with each giggle or snicker, ultimately causing internal instability …
Factor 3: Because my confidence was soaring, I was in a false state of security and relaxation, thinking nothing could possibly go awry. Hence, all body muscles were not on guard. And finally,
Factor 4: I was now sitting on a hard, plastic, sound-enhancing bench at the local Sconecutter…

The whole thing happened in less than 3 seconds. I landed another sweet joke—perhaps the most enjoyable joke of the evening—and everyone was laughing hard. I inhaled deeply to catch my breath for another exhale of jubilant laughter, but as my laughter was liberated, a huge "toot" reverberated off the yellow bench beneath me several decibels louder than any other laughter, conversation, or jackhammer in the restaurant.

"Toot" is perhaps the wrong word, it was more of a honk; it sounded like I had just sat on a large, cranky duck. I was now indeed, the “Scone-cutter.” My friends, of course, laughed even harder, but my date and I looked at each other—not knowing who was more embarrassed. I desperately tried to think of a way out, but my mind was blank. The world started moving in slow-motion as the fresh fragrance of Cucumber Melon drifted away only to be replaced by the rotten rank of garlic and onion rings.

Needless to say, from that point on and throughout the rest of the date, my jokes didn’t land, my confidence was shot and I ended up never calling that girl ever again. Yes, I was devastated. For years I wondered what her hands would have felt like. From then on, I couldn't bare dating anyone who applied the bittersweet Cucumber Melon lotion (which affected my game for a while due to its unnaturally enduring popularity).

As I think back on that experience today, I'm actually quite grateful for the gassy blunder--had I followed my nose and accomplished my objective with that girl, I may not have ever learned how to follow my heart.

Kelsey's hands are, by the way, to die for.